My Only Love
by Ree1
Summary: Clarice and Hannibal's love transcends all boundaries, even death.


  
Pieces of Clarice's letter were taken with permission from Horserider's "Greener Pastures" story, and Clarice's second poem is taken from the song Come What May from Moulin Rouge. Of course, the original idea of a Romeo and Juliet-esque story (and I've never been one who can resist a sappy tragedy) was Lisa's (iluvrichardawson) from the LL club.  
  
I don't own any of the characters except Sarah Crawford, the rest belong to Thomas Harris and I promise to dust them and put them back when I'm done.  
  
Ree  
  
  
My Only Love  
  
Her eyes may have squinted slightly and her head unconsciously lowered a fraction of an inch, as she had learned on the firing range. But this was not Quantico and about as far away from the firing range as one could get. This was the Paris Gucci boutique and Clarice was being fitted for an opera gown.   
  
Gentle tugs by the stylist maneuvered the royal blue silk to hug Clarice's willowy, athletic body perfectly as she stood with authoritarian poise before the massive three-way mirror. The neck of the gown was low and would showcase her incredible new sapphire and diamond necklace ("Necklace?" she thought, "It's practically a collar!") and elegant collarbone and shoulders. The skirt was long and whispered around her feet, which were encased in the finest silken sandals (with just enough heel to be coy) that money could buy.   
  
"Hannibal will drop dead when he sees this!" She thought. Despite the Barbie-ness of the reflection, she genuinely meant it. She had unbelievable taste and it pleased her love to no end to see her implement it.   
  
Buenos Ares was three names behind them now. She had begun to think of time in the range of how many names she had gone through. Each location got them both a new name, but Hannibal had always retained his proper prefix and her first name had stayed the same since they had left the Chesapeake: Hannah.   
  
How her life had changed! She often thought back on the time before Muskrat Farm the way one thinks back to the time when they were five years old, but it hadn't been that very long ago. Hannibal had taught her to come to terms with her rage and channel it into positive forums. Instead of fighting or shooting, she now read and studied language and music. She was, he had to admit, becoming quite adept at the harpsichord, especially when it came to Beethoven.   
  
Though she kept her perfect posture, she began to feel uneasy. She interpreted it, as usual, as her need to be near Hannibal whenever she could. She had her own little life away from him (even though it mostly consisted of reading, shopping and a few ill-fated adventures in the kitchen), but she always felt better, more understood and more herself when she was with him. She couldn't describe the feeling she got away from him. It was something like a barren tree in winter.   
  
The stylist told her that the dress would be ready next week and the final fitting was over. Clarice got dressed in the opulent dressing room, put on a white linen skirt, light blue silk blouse and matching white linen jacket. She pushed a hand through her newly long platinum hair and added a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, smiling at her elegant reflection. She put her new shoes back in their box, re-wrapping them in their tissue paper, and put on her favorite neutral Gucci pumps. She walked out of the boutique and into the car waiting outside the door.   
  
"'Morning, Lloyd. How are you? How's Mary feeling?" Clarice asked, speaking to her chauffer and inquiring about his wife, whom had recently had an appendectomy.   
  
"She's doing much better, Mrs. Pastore. She said to thank you for the soup you brought over. How's your morning going?"   
  
"Pretty well, thanks. They said my dress would be ready next week, which probably means I'll be seeing it sometime next month." They both laughed as Lloyd headed for home.   
  
'Home' was now a charming semi-chateau on Rue de Pandrie; a street just respected enough to be notable but not enough to stand out. It was charming two-story brick house with a balcony and a few bay windows in front, not to mention a modest pool in the back. Clarice walked through the heavy front door and Lloyd went to park the long black car. She triple-locked the door and sighed against it, mentally chastising Hannibal for his need for opulence, though it could be fun. She hated the thought that they could ever be separated, especially because of something like lifestyle. She hung her jacket on a coat-rack, walked into the next room and threw herself very ungracefully on the posh sofa before the fireplace. She stretched, bringing her hands above her head, arching her back and curling her toes.   
  
"Only two hours until Hannibal is home!" She thought, followed by: "Good lord, I've turned into Donna Reed."   
  
Hannibal had thought them gone long enough to open up a very small psychiatry practice in the Left Bank business district. He took only three patients, though many were on a waiting list that was quickly gathering dust. Clarice could live with the wealthy lifestyle, who couldn't? But she had thought that his going back to work was too dangerous a step, even with the plastic surgery he had undergone.   
  
"It is the last thing they think we'd do, Clarice, and while I could amuse myself for several lifetimes just listening to you speak, the money I have will not last forever. We haven't bated the FBI in quite a long time and I feel the need to get a bit of fun out of life. Just a little while, I promise" His words rang in her head.   
  
Clarice wondered why she felt so uneasy.   
  
She heard a car door slam. "No one is coming over." The thought had barely occurred to her before she had the Harpy that Hannibal had lovingly taught her to use (he had been so happy when she took to it so quickly) tucked into her sleeve and had taken a protective crouch to look outside the window. She saw Hannibal taking several stacked boxes from the backseat of the red Jag, supercharged and spectacular, and beginning to stand. Clarice let the Harpy clatter to the floor and opened the front door.   
  
Hannibal looked up, surprised at the sound, and the smallest box, a light blue one about nine inches long, fell from the top to the driveway. She ran to him and laughed at the expression on his face, a sheepish smile, as he looked at her and then down at the diamond and emerald bracelet with a clasp shaped like a butterfly fashioned from diamonds and sapphires. It glinted on the pavement as she bent to it.   
  
"This is incredible! Thank you." She kissed his cheek as he put down his packages.   
  
"So much fire for uncut stones." He said.  
  
"Is that an analysis, doctor?" She asked, trying very hard not to smile and failing miserably.   
  
"No, mi amore, simply a remembrance." He said, looking at her with his penetrating maroon eyes.   
  
Clarice smiled at him and stored the scene in her memory palace, knowing she would frequently retrieve it forever.   
  
  
  
  
As Clarice and Hannibal embraced in the driveway and elderly neighbors smiled, seeing them through their windows and remembering what it was like to be young, Sarah Crawford, Jack's daughter and now head of the Lecter case after her father's death, wiped an arm across her brow to brush away the beads of perspiration that had gathered there. Her legs pumped and propelled her quickly around the jogging track as she went over the evidence list in her head in chronological order.  
  
1.) Partial print of Lecter's on an opera ticket to see La Boheme in Brazil  
  
2.) A reported sighting of Clarice Starling in Norway at a fashionable benefit  
  
3.) An unconfirmed X-ray from a plastic surgeon in Mexico  
  
  
That was all there was. Sarah turned the facts over and over in her head; they were like puzzle pieces that wouldn't fit together. "Think like Dad" she thought.   
  
She tried. She still couldn't connect the pieces. She knew she had to come up with something soon or they might just kick her out. She was not real FBI. She had been an officer in New York when her dad died and she used his connections to be put on this case. Sarah had wanted to be in law enforcement, but the idea of the FBI and its corruption had always repelled her. The other FBI agents were outwardly nice for the sole fact that she was Crawford's daughter but avoided her like the plague whenever they could. Not that she cared.   
  
Sarah, with her father's chin and mother's eyes, cooled down and showered in the locker room. She changed into her work outfit: black skirt, gray shirt, black jacket with her FBI picture-ID pinned to the lapel and sensible black shoes over nude hose. She ran fingers through her red hair, the sweet-sixteen diamond ring she had gotten from her father glinting on her left hand. She had had her hair cut into a bob when she first came here- that is, until the Agent Scully references got on her nerves and she grew it long. It was past her shoulders now and gloriously shiny. Minimal makeup went on her face; she put on just a little powder and mascara. 'Maybe I should try harder. If I was prettier maybe they would like me more.' Sarah thought, 'God, that is so junior high. I just want to catch that witch and go home.' She threw the makeup bag in her locker and slammed the door, mercilessly spinning the combination lock.   
  
Heels clicked prudently on the sidewalk as she entered the Behavioral Science building. She walked downstairs, thinking that she was taking the exact same steps that Clarice Starling had taken. Clarice's name was often whispered in the FBI now, if said at all. She had become something of a legend and cult figure; she was the Betrayer, The One Who Got Away, if you will. Of course, some who knew her still expected to find her bleached bones in a desert somewhere. They prescribed to the idea that Lecter had killed her in return for her kindness and hidden the body. Most, like Sarah, accepted the fact that she had, of course, gone to the Dark Side and ran off into the sunset with the serial killer.   
  
She pushed open the door to the basement office, the same that Clarice had used to hunt Lecter before 'screwing and running' with him. She didn't so much as glance at the "Hannibal's House" sign that her impudent subordinates had dug up and hung on the door, underneath a newer sign that read simply "Starling's Nest".   
  
Starling was, in fact, the real underlying reason Sarah had so pursued to be put on the Lecter case. It was her personal opinion that Clarice Starling had killed her father. "He loved you, you bitch, and you just used him to get who you really wanted." It may have been fourteen years since her mother's death, but the fact that her father had loved someone else made her burn with rage. The fact that that woman had used him and then left him heartbroken gave her high blood pressure. She remembered Jack's face when he got the news about Starling while in the hospital. His face blanched and his fists bunched the sheets. The line on the screen of the heart monitor noticeably jumped higher.   
  
"Poor Clarice. Why would she?" was all he had said. He was never the same after that and he was dead a little over a month later.   
  
Sarah sat down at a table and switched on the VICAP computer. It was only 5AM, too early for anyone else to be in the office. She hit play on the portable cassette player and adjusted the headphones to her ears.   
  
"Don't you feel the eyes move over you, Clarice, in chance encounters? I could hardly see how you could not." Lecter's frighteningly calm monotone boomed in her ears. "And so it began." Sarah said aloud, burning.  
  
She sent up a silent prayer as she tapped the keys of the laptop. "Please God, let today be the day and please give me one clear shot at my Judas."  
  
  
  
  
Hannibal uncurled his legs from Clarice's. She rolled onto her stomach and mumbled into the pillow, making him smile. He pulled a robe on to cover his nakedness. Modesty was an effect of the European church that had never worn off of him. He walked into his office and logged onto the Internet, connecting first to the Yahoo! Clubs page. He went to the club entitled Loving Lecter and chuckled at the posts there.   
  
"As if I need more of an ego boost." He said aloud, wondering why these wonderful women and some men found him so fascinating. He read some of the new posts eagerly, following a hot debate over whether he was a true sociopath.   
  
He then went to the FBI's uninformative public website, thinking that if the zealous daughter of the stotic Crawford and her band at the FBI had half the research skills of the denizens of Loving Lecter, she would have apprehended him long ago. Not that he would have let that happen, of course.   
  
He logged onto Hotmail with the handle of curley-sue93084 to check the progress of two new identities he was having made for he and Clarice. It would not bode well to stay in Paris much longer, he figured, as he was gaining more renown as a psychiatrist. He thought now that Clarice had been right, his active practice did put them in a certain amount of jeopardy, but he had his insatiable need to hear the stories of others: to lick tears, as Clarice had called it during an argument once. He knew she saw through the flimsy money excuse he had once offered up but humored him in letting him practice his vocation. Hannibal saw now how much it troubled her, he could tell that just by seeing the harpy on the entryway floor when he came in today and he would do anything to ease her mind. The lambs had been long since silenced, but he knew an occasional scream echoed through her marvelous head now and again and would do whatever it took to prevent that.   
  
Seeing no new email, he leaned back in the comfortable desk chair and wandered quickly through the halls of his memory palace until he came to Clarice's gallery. It was long and wide with eggshell walls, polished maple flooring and a scarlet runner down the center. A huge twelve-foot high arched window dominated the back wall and looked out onto an ornate English rose garden. Sunlight streamed in, though it was not yet day in the real world. On each side of the gallery, many pictures of Clarice hung in ornate Byzantine-style frames. Clarice in her crème silk gown in the green velvet wingchair, looking up at him with her left breast exposed. Clarice bending over from the waist and finding the bug that had been hidden in her car. Clarice the first time they had made love, her head bent back in ecstasy but the look of a virgin recital student in her eyes locked with his. Clarice angry, her cheeks red and eyes burning, poised to throw an exceedingly expensive teacup at him when he had said something stingingly true about her mother. Hannibal had laughed when it shattered to a hundred pieces against the wall. Clarice reading a book, eyes alive with knowledge and understanding and a wave of golden hair slipping from her ponytail. Clarice in their bed, her lips parted slightly and sleeping peacefully in silence. He loved her with a depth and obsession he didn't really know he was capable of. Though not one prone to introspection, Hannibal sometimes wondered how he could love a being so much and worship every move of his goddess. He had asked her once if she felt like a goddess, as they danced on a terrace after an opera in Brazil. She had laughed and answered him in English, deliberately employing her West Virginia accent "Only when I'm with you, babe." She then led him inside where they made love, passionately and loudly. This tableau still affected him greatly.  
  
Clarice Starling was his Beatrice, his Helen, his Juliet, if one must employ these tired literary allusions. He would, he knew, die on a cross for her.  
  
  
  
  
Clarice awoke soon after Hannibal had left the bedroom. She reached over to his side of the bed and her hand met the silk of the pillow instead of his head. In her mind, she was still pulling him close to kiss her when she realized that he was not there. Loss washed over her like a cool wave. Blue eyes snapped open. She stood with a cat-like grace, the silk sheets caressing her while she rose as if they did not want to give her up. She pulled on a peach silk negligee and sat down at her writing desk before the window. Orion winked back at her in the still-black sky. She opened the middle drawer of the desk and pulled out her journal. The cover was soft peanut-colored leather and her place was marked with a burgundy silken ribbon.   
  
The journal was not a chronicle of her daily life, really. It was all letters written to Hannibal that she would probably never show him. She just felt so overwhelmed with emotion sometimes that she had to let it spill onto a page. She opened to a fresh page and wrote on it with her favorite silver Mont Blanc:   
  
Would you catch me if I were   
  
Falling?  
  
Would you kiss me if I were  
  
Leaving?   
  
Will you hold me because I am   
  
Lonely   
  
Lost  
  
Abandoned without you   
  
  
Sure, the poem may have been adolescent in nature; she never claimed to be a writer. But it satisfied her and allowed her to go to bed again and rest until she felt Hannibal's weight behind her and his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him and slept.   
  
  
  
  
Sarah leaned back in her chair and stretched, arching her back and curling her toes. She couldn't help but let out a triumphant squeak. She held a hand out and was high-fived by a Stephens, a lanky blonde man with pale skin and acne. He had the slightly bulky strength of a man who tried to overcompensate.  
  
"I have to admit, I thought you were crazy to fish for this stuff, but now it may have paid off." The agent said after a small, awkward victory dance.   
  
All extra-agency prejurial hatred was cast aside in this moment of success. At least, they hoped it was success. Four of bleach-blonde hairs with the follicle still attached had been found in the shower drain of a hotel room in Nice. It was still a hunch, but the couple who had stayed there had specifically asked for the hotel's oldest bottle of Chateau d'Yquem (only nine-hundred dollars) and the Goldberg Variations had been heard playing in their room by the busboy who delivered it. All workers who had come into contact with the couple found them polite and rather charming, but over-all creepy. Especially the man. A desk clerk said that the main thing about him that impressed on her memory was his stillness. Sarah had heard the shiver in her voice when she said it. The hair was being airmailed over and should arrive in a matter of hours on the Concorde. If they could match the DNA of the follicle to existing examples of Starling's, Sarah would have proof they were in France.   
  
  
  
  
Sarah, not invited to lunch with the two other agents on the case, poked a finger at the meat of a Lunchables that was only six days over the expiration date with a short, manicured fingertip. It didn't really smell funny, but.... She set the little plastic container beside the phone and laptop and decided to re-evaluate her hunger during a phone to her NYC PD office. She smiled with relief as she dialed, knowing she would hear a familiar voice through the wires.  
  
"New York City 5 Police. This is officer Saliano. If this is about the apartment fire on the 1200 block of Pershing, you're the seven-hundredth caller. Sorry, we're all out of prizes. The fire is controlled and being filmed for a movie. And no, we can't do anything about the noise." He was about to hang up the phone when Sarah loudly protested.   
  
"Yo, Saliano, it's me. So I leave for a while and the whole city burns down?" She tried to sound annoyed but only came off as amused.   
  
"Crawford! Long time, no word. We just can't run the city here without you. Some damn film company is blowing up an abandoned apartment complex for a movie, but they decided to burn it down first. 'Course it's across the street from an old-folks home and every nosy-old-crotchety resident decided to report it. So, how's our inside connection at the FBI?"  
  
"Funny. You know it's only temporary. Making progress, actually. Maybe soon I'll be home to keep New York safe from directors and the elderly."  
  
"Can't wait to have you back, Slugger. But I've got lights blinkin' all over this phone and I don't know what to do with them. I gotta let you go so I can force some rookie into taking calls. I'll call you later."  
  
"Bye, don't work too hard, now." She hung up the phone and felt like less of a total outcast.   
  
Saliano was a portable, a beat cop, who got shot in the leg by some gang members a few months ago. He was on desk duty until he proved to the physical therapist that he could function normally (he couldn't to begin with) and resented every second of deskwork. He was one of her closer friends in New York.   
  
Sarah decided to eat just the crackers and little Snickers bar and leave the cheese and meat. She didn't want to die of botulism this close to catching Clarice. She chewed and cracker crumbs fell to the desk and reminded her of ashes. Her mind wandered and returned to the morning of her father's death. It had taken months to convince her that Jack's death was natural, and in her soul she still doubted it. Something had to have pushed him over the edge and into heart attack range. She had searched everywhere for answers. She talked to the boy who delivered his groceries. She asked the postman who had had his huge pile of mail delivered when he returned from the hospital if there was anything strange in it. Both men had said no, they hadn't noticed anything and yes, Jack Crawford had acted perfectly normal when speaking to them. She had even gone so far as to have the ashes of the fire he burned that night analyzed. Besides the wood, there were remnants of wax-covered paper that was probably sale bills. Strangely, though, linen fibers like those used in fine paper had been found. A few scraps with hand-written words had been found stuck to the soot in the chimney. There were only three of these tiny scraps. They said 'Courage', 'whole new lif' and 'not reveal' respectively. The handwriting analysis didn't prove anything, but she was sure it was a letter from Starling. She pushed away the two remaining crackers and chocolate-bar, too sick to eat.   
  
  
  
  
Clarice leaned back into the comfortable leather headrest of the first-class airline seat. "Hannah Nicci Hannah Nicci" She turned her new name over in her head, playing with the sound of it. She reached up with her right hand to scratch the itchy seam where her white wig met the latex of her makeup. Both had made themselves look older and they passed quite well as a fragile, wealthy, elderly couple. That was only until they reached their new destination, Sliano, a tiny town outside Milan. Only another four hours on the plane. They were only an hour into the flight and she was bored. She glanced over at Hannibal. His head was back and his eyes closed. The only sign he was awake was his hand wrapped around her liver-spotted one as she held his thumb. She turned her head and closed her eyes, descending the grand staircase into the main hall of her memory palace.   
  
Black Gucci heels echoed on the rose marble of the main gallery in the left wing. She walked at a leisurely pace, looking at objects and paintings as she passed them by. Her hand reached out to caress the cool bronze countenance of Pallus Athena, her bow drawn and aimed at a bear. Muscles taunt in her legs and biceps as she aimed; she was a portrait of concentration with her head lowered a fraction of an inch and determination in her eye.  
  
Just before reaching the rounded marble balcony, Clarice stopped at a door. It was quite out of place here among the ornate pieces of art and architecture. A seven-foot tall rectangle of battered, rutted wood with a few cigarette burns. Her hand closed around the pseudo-gold stainless steal doorknob and she began to turn it, her hot flesh leaving mist on the shiny, cold metal. She did not knock.  
  
The door swung open to reveal the rather badly lit office of Jack Crawford. He sat with poor posture at his desk, bent over a letter and holding a blue highlighter. Piles of papers and folders surrounded him like unsteady columns. She stood, fine shoes disgraced by the dark Berber carpet, for a full three seconds before he looked up. Relief showed in his still-young-but-wrinkled-around the eyes face. This was the Mr. Crawford she had known when she was twenty-three: the fighter who hid his pain so well.   
  
"Starling! Want an alka-seltzer? Pull up a chair. " He asked as if it were a beer.   
  
"Sure, Mr. Crawford, fizz away." Clarice said as she pulled a rather uncomfortable Naugahyde chair a few inches closer to the scarred desk. She sat with legs uncrossed and elbows resting on her knees. Though he had been little to no help when she hit the glass ceiling of the FBI with an echoing thud, he now gave her advice on any problem she had, and no matter how petty she thought it was he never made fun of her. Of course, pity also had no place in their conversations.  
  
Jack handed her a Styrofoam cup emitting a faint, squeaky hum that she would always associate with Crawford for as long as she lived.  
  
"Should I ask how things are going, Starling?" There was a melancholic note to his voice. In her head, Clarice could make Jack accept her love and new life with Hannibal, but she couldn't make him like it.  
  
"I wonder, sometimes, Mr. Crawford. Not about Hannibal, I know I'd die without him. Just about the life we have to live together. We've got new names again. You know I want a family, but I wonder how we could raise kids and not worry about their safety." She knew she could tell Mr. Crawford how she really felt and he wouldn't judge her character on it.  
  
"Personally, Starling, I'd be more worried about having a three-year old harpy expert in the house."   
  
Clarice had a sudden vision of herself standing in the living room, hands on hips, as Lecter and a finely dressed little boy stood before her with hands behind their backs and sleek, dark heads bowed.   
"How many times have I told you two: if you have to throw harpies in the house, STAY AWAY FROM THE BOTTICELLI PAINTINGS!"  
  
She threw her head back and laughed.  
  
"Now wouldn't those be some temper tantrums!" Her smile was true and the idea amused her to no end.  
  
She had discussed family with Lecter a few times. He said that any children they had would be incredible people and he couldn't wait to be a father (he also said he couldn't wait to see how beautiful Clarice would be pregnant), but they should wait a little longer. At least until the FBI search was over.   
  
"But honestly, Dr. Lecter would keep his family safe, no matter what the cost. I know how he protects the things that matter to him and you and anything you want certainly do." She smiled at her old friend's grudging admission that Hannibal had emotions. He began to clean his glasses with a Kleenex.   
  
"Don't you ever kinda wonder about what God is really thinking up there?" Her accent came back without realization, "I mean, why would he do this to us? Make it so two people can't breathe without each other and then make it so they can't safely be together. That something I may do could get Hannibal caught or killed makes me sick. He feels the same way, too. If he died, I don't know what I would do. Just wither up like a raison until I disappear, I think. I can't imagine it."  
  
"How come you're thinking about death so much lately?" His voice held genuine concern.  
  
"I just feel kind of edgy all the time. Maybe I'm tired of the running and afraid I'll screw up. I don't know." She put her head down and twined her hands through her hair.  
  
"You love each other. Use that and I think you'll be just fine." He put his glasses back on after a final inspection and light reflected from both lenses.   
  
He rose with her as she stood; dropping her cup in the trash can by the door on her way out. She stopped and turned from the waist, smiling and waving her hand back and forth like a child. They never spoke goodbye.  
  
  
  
Hannibal looked at Clarice as she rested, watching her eyes move behind her eyelids. Anyone else would think that she was in the REM phase of sleep, but he knew that she was talking to Crawford by the tilt of her head and the way she clutched his thumb.   
  
"What's Jacky-boy saying about me now, Clarice?" He wondered, "Is he telling you how much better off we'll be in Slianno? Or is he telling you something else?" Lecter was still wary of Jack, but Clarice had told him that her Crawford had accepted their love and he believed her.   
  
The truth was, he hoped Slianno could be their last stop. Assuming they could keep the required low profile, he saw no reason they could not stay there and raise a family. He knew Clarice pined for children, for 'normalcy', and he would do what it took to give her what she wanted. He began to draw figure eights on the back of her fine hand with his index finger. Hannibal wanted to be a father very much. He knew that he had some less than desirable habits that he could not teach his child, but there were so many things he looked forward to. Teaching a son to play piano or a daughter how to shoot a bow. He suppressed a laugh at the thought of having a teenage daughter, tall and noble like his Clarice with his dark hair and grace. She would be a goddess. And woe to any boy who hurt her if she had Clarice and Hannibal Lecter for parents!   
  
Hannibal felt the bump of the landing and began to think of more practical things such as luggage retrieval and transport as he gently shook Clarice's shoulder to wake her if she truly slept.  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes life can be sweet. That was what Sarah Crawford realized as she cruised at an altitude of 30,000 feet at around 150 miles an hour. She stretched her legs as much as possible in the minimal coach comfort that her beaur0 budget afforded her. Next to her sat Agent Stephens, snoringly asleep with his head lolling to the left and drooling just a bit. A book by her father on forensic science rested unread in her lap and Tori Amos wailed beautifully anguished notes unnoticed through her headphones. They had tracked Lecter from Paris (where he had been practicing. she shuddered to think of it, but his three patients had nothing but praise for him. Sarah hoped they were stable when they learned the truth) to the Nice hotel to the Charles-de-Gaul Airport and then to a rental agency. The tracking chip in the car, a device often used in foreign countries, had led her directly to them. She smiled blissfully. Justice would be served within the reach of her arm. "Or at least my bullet" She thought, patting the gun in the pancake holster strapped tightly to her side.   
  
  
  
Tires crunched the gravel as Hannibal stopped their rental car in the driveway. The driveway belonged to a charming white Victorian-style house. It was far from the sumptuousness of Florence and he thought the transplantation of architecture displeasing, but he could learn to love it. He knew it was something Clarice would like. The house rose high into the air, punctuated by two turrets. A stone walkway decorated on each side by yellow and purple flowers led to a porch that wrapped around the front. Finely paned windows looked out onto the immaculate front yard, all manicured grass and a large oak tree, from which hung a wooden swing.   
  
He opened her door and took her proffered hand. He was reminded of Grace Kelly being escorted from her limousine while he secured Clarice's tiny hand and helped her steady as she climbed from the car, her eyes covered by a scarf. Hannibal positioned her so that she would have the most flattering viewpoint of the house and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. He let the scarf fall from her eyes and flutter to the ground as he happily heard her intake of breath.   
  
"Hannibal, I- It's beautiful. I- How did you know?" Clarice's voice was choppy and thick with tears as she turned to kiss him.   
  
"Just simple research, my dear. Are you happy?" He knew she was but felt he should ask. He kissed a year from her cheek.   
  
It hadn't been hard, due to the wonders of the Internet and the many HTML-literate people obsessed with his beloved, to find a picture of her childhood dollhouse and then find a similar home in Italy.  
  
"Oh, yes." She regained some composure "I just don't know what to say-"  
  
He held a finger to her lips "You don't need to say anything. Come inside and we'll find the less tacky of the antiques." She took his hand and walked through the heavy maple door.  
  
They ran about the pre-furnished house like children in a playhouse, rearranging things and laughing at the hideousness of some pieces of furniture. Clarice's face had a happy flush to it as she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.   
  
"It's just so perfect. Thank you so much." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him and he wrapped his hands around her waist. She looked into his eyes and caressed his cheek with the back her hand. Her hair tickled his thumbs. She kissed him again, a sweet kiss that was like roses and daisies. She led him into the bedroom, a light room with white walls, maple floor and blue curtains. A large four-poster bed with a navy blue comforter dominated the room. She sat down on it, her white sundress bunching around her thighs from her ungraceful hurry.   
  
"I know you know I love you. Do you know how much?" Her accent, pure West Virginia, was coming through as it sometimes did when she felt strongly about something "I've had this weird feeling lately. Like you're slipping through my hands and I can't stop it. I know I can't stop what's coming. I don't want to think about losin' you, if it ever comes to that. But we have now, right? This second; we have that. I want you to know that my life was worth it 'cause of that one second. Do you understand what I mean?" She had spoken quickly but clearly, her eyes blue and cutting.  
  
Hannibal looked at his Clarice. How could she ever think he doubted her feelings for him? She had given up so much for him: her FBI, Crawford, her father and her pain. He smoothed away a lock of stray hair from her forehead and a tear slipped from a usually strictly controlled eye. He looked at her: so pure, so awe-inspiring, and so brave. She had the sweetest eyes he had ever seen.  
  
"Clarice, I love you more than freedom. Mia solanta amore." He bent his head and she kissed his tear away.   
  
They fell upon the bed, neither remembering how they got there afterwards. Clothes disappeared like magic. Their lovemaking was breathless and kind, full of soft kisses on hot flesh. Clarice's cries mixed with Hannibal's moans. No words were spoken because none were needed. They were joined together, each selling their soul to the other one more time.  
  
They lay side by side afterwards, the white sheet drawn to their waists. Clarice lay on her stomach, hands tucked beneath her head and a look of serenity set over her features. Hannibal lay on his side, propped up on one elbow and blissfully watching her sleep. A small smile played on his face as he reached out to stroke her back lightly.  
  
"Mmmmm?" She managed, feet working beneath the sheet. "Are we making breakfast?"  
  
"It's four in the afternoon, darling. We can start dinner, if you like." He smiled at her struggle to awaken.  
  
Clarice opened her eyes and smiled at him, her nose wrinkling for a second. "I said I wanted breakfast." She kissed him, rose and pulled her now-rumpled sundress over her head. She padded out of the room.  
  
Hannibal laughed, got dressed and joined her in the new kitchen. He had made sure it would be well stocked for their arrival. They found the frying pans and were in the process of making an omelet and French toast when it all went crumbling down. Clarice had just cracked an egg into the Hammacher Schlemmer mixing bowl whole and was laughing as she tried to pick out all of the shell. Hannibal, making another wry comment about her upbringing versus her cooking skills, was reaching for a dishtowel when the front door, less than four feet away from the kitchen, burst open with a shuddering bang. Their eyes locked, dried blood on sky blue, as they heard the shout of "Freeze! FBI! Put your hands up!"   
  
The voice was a throaty female alto. Hannibal looked at Clarice with one eyebrow raised; his look said I go along with me /I. Her eyes darted about wildly. The only other door from the kitchen led to the pantry. Hannibal moved his arm quickly and then Sarah was in the door that led to the hallway, gun drawn.   
  
Sarah was alone. A simple sedative in Stephens' can of Pepsi had left him nearly comatose in his hotel room. She was doing this herself. No way was she letting Starling surrender peacefully. She wanted to see Clarice recoil from the blast of a bullet in her chest. She wanted to feel her last heartbeat and hear an apology in her last breath.   
  
Sarah came around the corner and saw Lecter and Starling around a kitchen counter cooking. No especially sharp utensils in her eyesight. Before anyone could move, she aimed her gun at Hannibal's stomach and fired, not caring if it was a death shot or not. She was too close to benediction, too close to her vengeance to care.   
  
Clarice's scream as Hannibal hit the floor echoed from the walls. Sarah had to look twice to make sure she hadn't hit Starling. "No" Clarice cried and dove to where her love had fallen and her hands flew to his hands, covering the small hole in his abdomen. He shook her head almost imperceptibly to her. Sarah was too euphoric to notice. She brought the back of her .38 down hard on the back of the prone Clarice. She fell, her hands catching her and keeping her from the floor. Tears already streamed down her cheeks.   
  
"Who are you crying for, b----? Get up and sit in the chair. Keep your hands where I can see them." She kicked a kitchen chair so that it faced her. Clarice soundlessly drew herself up and sat in the chair, face stone but tears dripping from her chin.   
  
Sarah was no longer a solid being. She had turned into a burning, quivering, smoldering pillar of rage. She sneered like a feral animal about to strike.  
  
"Do you know who I am? I'm Jack's daughter. You remember Jack Crawford, don't you? I'd understand how you wouldn't; you've killed so many it must be hard to keep track of them all. You know, he was tall, brown hair, glasses, skinny, you used him and then left him dying over you. You and that." She gestured with her pistol to Hannibal, kneeling against the cabinet silently bleeding, his hands now ruddy from the bullet that had pierced his spine. "He died because of you. Fathers can be important to a girl, you know, Clarice? People that destroy important things generally get hurt, don't you think? Your father was stupid and short-shucked his shotgun, right? He didn't have to survive for four months, his every thought torture before it finally killed him, did he? Well, my daddy did and you're going to pay for it." She gave Clarice a smooth left hook and enjoyed the sound of her jaw rattling.   
  
Clarice just grabbed onto the nearby table and steadied herself, eyes downcast and tears falling on her white dress to mix with Hannibal's blood.   
  
"Why did you do it?" Desperation rang in Sarah's voice  
  
"I loved him." She muttered. Whether this meant Crawford or Lecter, Sarah didn't know.  
  
"I hope it was worth it. Was it? Was it worth the life of a good man; was it worth seducing my father and then running away with a monster?" Sarah's voice squeaked, thick with tears and pain.   
  
"Every fucking second." Starling said through tightly clenched teeth.   
  
This was too much. Sarah was overcome and leveled her gun at Clarice's chest. A screaming sob escaped her mouth as she pressed the trigger with a capable finger. Clarice, knowing timing when it came to guns, jumped from the chair at exactly the right instant and pulled the four-inch filleting knife from the top of her dress. She wasn't quick enough to miss the entire bullet and it ripped her shoulder, blood splashing onto Sarah's navy FBI windbreaker. The jump caught her off-guard and she stumbled backwards. Clarice was on top of her in a second. Sarah's eyes blazed as Clarice plunged the knife into her chest, cracking the ribs and entering the heart within two stabs. A high-pitched scream filled the air, but was cut off from blood in her throat. "Sorry, Daddy." Was the last thing Sarah Crawford, with her father's hair and mother's hands, was ever to think.   
  
Clarice, barely able to see through the burning pain, found her way to Hannibal. He was lying before the china cabinet, paralyzed from the waist down. The white carpet around him had turned the color of a Christmas poinsettia. He had tried to staunch the bleeding, but with little success. The bullet had lodged in his spine and it was only through his superhuman will that he had remained conscious. A hand lay futilely over the wound applying pressure where needed. There was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he was contemplating some distant, complicated problem.   
  
"Sarah was wise like- her father and used hollowpoints. I fear- I'm the worse for wear- but you'll be all right. " Hannibal managed to whisper through his clenched teeth.   
  
"No. You'll be okay." Clarice tried not to cry. She put her hands to his stomach to examine his wound but he shooed her hands away. He smoothed her hair and gave her a look that broke her heart a thousand times.   
  
He wondered how it could end like this. How he couldn't stop it. He would leave her just like her father had. How wonderful his life was with her in it; he would miss so much now. He would never see her glow with their child inside her. Never feed her strawberries in the summer again. Never see her smile at him when she woke again. He would never get to hear her laugh again. Never talk with her and see her face light up with understanding again. Never see her run ever again. He looked at her face and swallowed a sob. Two tears ran matching tracks down his cheeks. She had the sweetest eyes that he had ever seen.  
  
"Clarice-"  
  
"No, hold on." She begged, her blue eyes uncomprehending and grasping at sanity. "Don't go yet, just-- don't go away." Her voice broke and her tears fell.   
"I love you so much"  
  
"You are my only Jesus, Clarice." He was able to bend his head to kiss her before falling back again, his hand caressing her cheek.   
  
His vision began to blacken, closing in like a frame around her shocked, pained face, still beautiful in its innocence. The last thing he saw was a vision of her: twenty-three with wide blue eyes and long brown hair, standing before his cage, fidgeting in cheap shoes.   
  
Clarice stared dumbfounded, mouth open in silent protest, as Hannibal's eyes closed and his hand began to slip from her cheek. She held it in both of her hands there. Her eyes moved quickly over his face from left to right and back again, searching for any iota of muscle movement, anything to prove that he wasn't gone. Time stopped for her with Hannibal. Air molecules froze and she couldn't breathe. Her own thoughts seemed a foreign language and all she could see were snapshots of them. Of him. Hannibal kissing her for the first time, lips chastely closed and holding both of her hands as if afraid she would run away. Hannibal letting her drive the supercharged Jag and laughing with her as the wind blew their hair and she pushed 150. Teaching her Dante and letting her come to the dramatic realizations it brought on her own and in her own time, but always pushing her in the right direction. Hannibal caressing her cheek as they gently made love. She let a single sob escape her lips. Its sound cut the air and seemed to echo back into her disbelieving ears a hundred times.   
  
Eyes flitted disbelievingly about, unsure that a universe existed without Hannibal. The pain in her shoulder was forgotten. His hand, still warm in hers, fell from her cheek. Her hand brushed the stiff fibers of the carpet, not understanding how they were still solid. The thought that time may move again and she with it was unbearable. What if she ever forgot his eyes? A pain radiated from her chest to every part of her body. "Oh God, how can anything hurt this much?" She wasn't sure if it was a prayer or a curse.   
  
Clarice remembered a poem from her journal:  
  
I never knew I could feel like this;  
  
Like I've never seen the sky before.  
  
I want to vanish in your kiss.  
  
Seasons may change:  
  
Winter to Spring  
  
But I love you  
  
Until the end of time.  
  
Her eyes focused on a single object, winking seductively in the summer sun. The knife, still wet with Sarah's blood, had fallen from her hand and lay just a few inches away. Her hands left Hannibal's, already beginning to stiffen. Her right hand moved, open-fingered, to hover over the knife. She lifted it slowly; as if it was an object she had never encountered before, and held it before her eyes. Her decision was made. She wouldn't live in this world without him. She had worked enough suicides to know how to do it effectively. A tear dripped from her jaw onto Hannibal's now red shirt as she turned her left wrist, exposing the white skin underneath. She drew the knife across it in one deep vertical stroke, Clarice's blood mixing with Sarah's. She repeated the same on the other wrist. She didn't feel anything, only warmth running down her arms as she lay down beside her Hannibal and closed her eyes. She saw him that day in the driveway, sheepishly stopping to pick up her surprise butterfly bracelet.   
  
They died like that, our legendary, tragic couple, in an embrace for the whole world to finally see.   
  
  



End file.
